Thursday, February 28, 2008

Seeing that people who live in the District pride themselves on never leaving the District, the Taxation Without Representation license plates have really only spread the message of DC’s lack of voting powers to places like the Pentagon City Costco or Potomac Yard Target. And now that the US Mint has decided that the topic is the Roe v. Wade of American coinage, the rest of the nation is blissfully forced to continue ignoring the issue.

However, it now gives me a chance to resubmit my idea for the DC quarter. The two bars and three stars of the Flag are boring. As is the truncated diamond shape that marks the cities boundaries, even though that’s probably what they’ll end up doing. And this is especially true since all the other states that have put maps of themselves on their quarters are decidedly lame. Ohio, we are specifically talking about you and your weak-sauce requisitioning of the Wright Brothers Flyer from North Carolina.

If DC really wants to stand out among the quarters, they need to do what I suggest. In fact, they would stand out among every coin ever minted in the history of currency. Even among shiny shells and beads and pesos.

I propose that the DC quarter has George Washington’s profile on the head’s side and George Washington’s profile on the tails side. I’ll let that sink in. I want DC to have a coin that has two head sides on it. It will be teh awesome.

It doesn’t have to be a straight up mirror image of the current profile. It can be a young Elvis version. Or they could even have him looking to the front a little bit like Jefferson is on the new nickel.

This idea is genius. Washington DC, please send me my complimentary roll of free quarters that I naturally assume I'll get for coming up with the winning idea. I have laundry to do.

Tuesday, February 26, 2008

The casting call also advertises for a 9- to 12-year-old white girl with an “other-worldly look ... could be an albino or something along those lines -- she's someone who is visually different and therefore has a closer contact to the gods and to magic. 'Regular-looking' children should not attend this open call.''

2. You forgot Body Parts, the movie that had the unfortunate timing of being released right after Jeffrey Dahmer got caught. The studio tried to bury it so hard it still doesn’t even have a Wikipedia entry. It starred Jeff Fahey, who is currently cast as Squinty Goatee-ed Helicopter Pilot on this season of Lost.

This story is fantastic, if only for the use of 1980's hideaway products one can probably still win at the county fair. If only they had also found some goodies stashed in a Reader's Digest issue with the center pages cut out.

Monday, February 25, 2008

This year was going to be different. This year we weren’t going to be like my father and wait until the very last minute to do our taxes. As soon as we got every random W-2, 1099 and miscellaneous receipt in the mail we were going to hammer these dastardly things out.

(Side bar - My father has, literally, waited to the very last minute to do his taxes. A few years back he delayed until April 15th to finish his return and then drove to the giant US Mail Center in Merrifield, VA so he could drop them off in person. He lingered outside until 11:59pm and then ran in so his could be the last envelope in the mailbag. I pointed out that it probably meant that his was the first one filed since it was on the top of the pile but he was having one of that. “Last one,” he kept saying.)

Thinking we had every last form, we sat down in front of the computer last weekend only to have Turbo Tax tell us we owed several million dollars. But, it said, you guys filed property tax as a deduction last year so you’ll probably want to do it again for 2007. Naturally we couldn’t find that form and this past week was filled with silent cursing and indecipherable emails from CitiMortgage’s customer service reps.

We finally got all our ducks lined up last night and there was much success. Thank you governments for our free monies. Now, hurry please and deposit electronically into our bank account and secret pockets sewn into our fanciest pantaloons. We addressed and stamped the envelopes and placed by the door for the mailman. Goodnight IRS.

Amazingly, that’s not where the story ends. Last night I dreamt I was dinging with several famous people. One turned to me and said, “It’s time to wake up, Nabob. You didn’t sign your tax return.”

As Secretary of Treasury Henry M. Paulson, Jr is my witness, I swear that this is exactly what happened.

I woke the G up and told her we needed to go open our returns and sign them before the mail came. She thanked my nocturnal assiduousness by telling me to “shut the fuck up and go back to sleep because, dude, seriously, it’s 4:30am,” and “what’s wrong with you?” However, she grudgingly acknowledged that she was impressed this morning when we opened the envelopes and saw that, indeed, we had forgotten to sign them.

Amazingly, again, that’s not where the story ends. A few minutes ago, I spilled an entire grande English Breakfast tea on our taxes as they patiently awaited their trip to the post office. Even worse, when I was trying to open the quickly dissolving envelopes with a letter opener, I cut the return in half.

So, tonight we need to print ‘em out again and we’ll mail ‘em out tomorrow. I assume the G will take charge and not let me anywhere near are sweet, giant refund.

What about filing electronically, you say? To be honest, I don’t trust computers. They steal your identities and give them to Nigerian oil magistrates. Just ask that girl whose credit card keeps getting charged by the DMV for someone else’s $250 parking tickets. I bet she files electronically.

Friday, February 22, 2008

In 2002, I took a trip to China that resulted in so many outrageously awesome adventures that their retelling would surely result in the Chinese government shutting down the entire internet out of embarrassment. Then they would hack into Secretary Gates email and have our house get peppered with destroyed secret satellite bits. They are that scandalous.

And it appears that it’s getting more so.

At the time, I considered my few days in Hong Kong to be quit tame. In an effort to get out of the city and to see the coast, about 15 of us rented a boat and sailed to some nearby island for some drinking and beach rugby and high times. We goofed off, took pictures and wasted the day away.

I got an email yesterday from my friend who organized the trip and he asked if I remember another guy from that cruise named Chen. I replied that I thought there were several dudes on the boat named Chen. “No,” he said. “Edison Chen.”

Thursday, February 21, 2008

Someone just referenced the gnome-jacking plot from the movie Amélie and even though I’ve seen it twice, I can’t recount a single other thing that happened. Luckily, we have instant message. Here’s a smattering of several women’s memory of the movie. And Avent’s. Draw your own conclusion on that last one.

Hmmm. Let's see. She's a frail waitress who helps people like her neighbor and her dad liked gnomes maybe? and had pen pals? and so she starts on some cat and mouse thing with a cute boy involving a photo booth, um, the end. I think.

Grade: C-

It, like, has no plot. you know, cute lonely French girl. Various vignettes...making random connections and helping out people in Paris. Along the way plays this sort of cutesy treasure hunt with a French guy they end up having sex and falling in love.

Grade: C+ (for remembering they had sex)

It's about an enigmatic girl and her quirky approach to life -- sending her father's beloved yard gnome on worldwide adventures, etc. but mostly it's a love story between two people that haven't met, and how they meet. He's a photo booth repair man, she's infatuated by photo booths and it's all very French and not annoying, like what i just wrote sounds.

Grade: B

A young woman who is afraid to open her heart is charmed by young man who has the same problem.

So there's this girl, her mom died when she was young and she's sad/nutty. She's in her flat one day and she finds this old box of toys and stuff that some kid must have left there ages ago and she makes up her mind to find the owner. Ultimately she decides to do tons of nice stuff like: she embarrasses the mean boss of this nice but kind of dumb grocery boy, she sets up this grumpy cafe patron with the hypochondriac cigarette girl and underneath it all is this storyline where she tries to figure out what this guy is doing getting his picture taken in photobooths all over the city turns out he's a photobooth repair guy. And this other cute guy who worked at a sex shop shared her obsession with the photo guy. In the end they meet and like each other and ride off on his moped. Fin

Soooo.... is it too early to already claim i don't care if Barack Obama is my new bicycle? Or that he wants me to scarf a cupcake? Or if really, anyone else is my new bicycle/providing me baked goods? Or folding my laundry? Because no one is folding my laundry, not even me. Trust me.

Wednesday, February 20, 2008

The New York Times business section is the part of the paper I get to last. It doesn’t have comics, like our Business section, and I don’t care about/understand half of the stuff in there. I’m also the last person under the age of 33 who doesn’t read it online, so when I IM the G and say “Didja see the Times article about camouflage cuttlefish?” and she say’s “link please” and I go “uh? The New York Times website,” she gets angered.

With these things in mind, I just got to yesterday’s business section a few minutes ago. I put it right down. Right there on the front page, right there for little kids to see, was a photo of my sworn enemy. The article accompanying the picture offers no explanation to why its there. All it does is show the horrifying visages of the terrifying German Clown Army.

My only run-in with them happened a few weeks back while riding a bus through the German country-side. I spotted the first one along a hedge about 200 yards off the road. Suddenly, about 50 of them came pouring out into a field, running full speed toward another hedge-line. Very Band OF Brothers. Later, while driving through a much more wooded area, I saw another bunch moving in and out of the forest and crossing the road. It was like that ambush scene in Children of Men except Clive Owen wasn’t there and everyone was dressed like sad hobos. Openly, I wish Julianne Moore got shot in the neck in my story too.

I’m not against whatever it is the Clown Army is for politically. I’m not even exactly sure what that is. I’m just uncomfortable with that many clowns moving in any one direction, with a single-minded motivation.

I took a picture of a mural drawn by some of the clowns depicting their oppression by the German police. Although I have no proof, I believe the scene occurred the opposite way it is sketched.

The best comedy on cable right now is something on the Food Network where ‘raglar ol’ folks battle it out in a faux-kitchen stadium (live audience!) over who has the best recipe for soup or friend chicken or whatever. I think it’s called “Food Fight" "Ultimate Recipe Showdown." It is soooooo stupid and yet suuuuuch a scream factory. I love it.

One, it’s hosted by Marc Summers, who can do no wrong in my opinion after throwing a coffee mug of water on Burt Reynolds back in the day; two, the jolliest bleached blonde Italian Guy named Guy ever, and three: The introductions of the contestants.

Oh god, the introductions. They are so awesome. The other night two women introduced themselves thusly:

“Hi, I’m Bridget, a stay at home Mom AND a Katrina Survivor!”

“Hi, I’m Ann! I run an online clock shop!”

. . . I am not even exaggerating that at all. If I could find it online, it would be the best animated GIF I ever made.

Do you remember the scene in “Grosse Pointe Blank” where Cusack is staring into the mirror minutes before he leaves for his high school reunion, nervously fidgeting with his tie, attempting to figure out the massive lie he’s going to tell to fellow alumni when they ask about about his chosen profession? “Online Clock Shop.”

I need TiVo just for this program alone.

Unrelated:

My favorite song lately: Thao’s “Swimming Pool.” I was trying to tell the N. why I liked it and I had to fumble my way through it by making plucky-plucky motions and saying “you know, the sound like a guitar but not?”

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

From what we can tell, the couple that sold us our hovel made several curious lifestyle choices. One was to forgo the traditional ornamentation of crown molding and instead line the walls with 60 yards of nautical rope. Another was the room with white walls but a blue ceiling. However, chief among these unorthodox household decisions was the one that resulted in the birth of a son.

The unfortunate outcome of this choice was that every window blind within the grasp of his sticky, jelly covered hands was completely mangled. They looked liked 80’s women’s hair, the kind with all the kinks. (I assume the tool used to achieve this effect is called The Kinker. At least it should have been.) This family did us no favors by generously conveying the blinds to us when they left. Also, several plants.

After throwing out the plants and painting over the accursed blue ceiling, we decided our next move as new homeowners was to get new, non-kinked blinds. Naturally, it took us 8 months to get our act together and go to Home Despot. We went with white.

Two weeks and one hernia later the blinds were up. The old ones ended up the trunk of the G’s car and may still be there. But about twenty minutes after we put them into the window, we foolishly agreed to dog-sit my parent’s Black Dog. Obviously, the first thing he did was tear the shit out of them. My parent felt bad and offered to pay for the repair. All we had to do is send them back and give them the bill.

It should be a surprise to no one that we left them busted up for several months. Then we got Brown Dog. And the first thing he did when he moved in was take a big crap in the dining room. But the second thing he did was tear the EVER LIVING FUCK out of the rest of the blinds. Totally pwned them. My parents lawyered up on our sorry asses and claimed they couldn’t tell which dog destroyed which slat and we were on our own. When you pulled on the cord, only half of the blinds went up and the ones that were broken swung wildly out into the room. If you tried to turn the crank, it would jerk spastically and break off.

Fast forward 3½ years…

I finally did something about the eye sores this weekend. I stole a huge box from a post office loading bay, jerry rigged some packaging with $20 worth of duct tape and dragged it down to UPS. As we speak, they are on there way to Douglas, Arizona to get all respectable-like.

In the meantime, if you’re in the neighborhood, feel free to drop by and stare directly into the house. We normally keep our blinds closed, but as the G found out after the disastrous neighborhood baby shower she was invited to on Sunday (out of pity) this practice has caused most of our neighbors to think us rude and perhaps troll-ish. But there’s a new openness policy at the Pyggy house! Let the sun shine in! We may not even put the repaired blinds back up!

The front yard is fine for seeing most things that go on but if you go up the steps you can see right into the kitchen! What’s for dinner, you ask? Well, it’s bread made from the bones of an Englishman!

Stupid neighbors. I hope your babies are colicky and they get made fun of for being named Lance.

you know it's been a slow couple of months when the Creepy Abandoned Chi Chi's site is getting exponentially more hits. Come on, Internet, you are better than that. That site is like, one step away from me making a ytmnd site about mexican chain restaurants. Which now that I think about it.....

we got a new fridge; my spouse configured an awesome spectacle of a mailing container made of pipe cleaners and duct tape and recycled cardboard and dreams, here's to hoping UPS decides our dog-eaten blinds are worth delivering to the repair center and not a Unibomber or terrorist package; i went to a gathering of neigh-bro-hood ladyfolk where the topic of conversation was "what a cuuuuuute movie 'Definitely Maybe is OMG you must go see it'; the dog, K and I got stuck in a rainstorm near Great Falls after an hour + of driving around the greater metropolitan area because I couldn't find a parking spot at any "outdoorsy places", which seems... beyond pathetic of me (go to hell, roosevelt islanders!); i learned i am terrible at shooting dinosaurs and would have died immediately if stuck in jurassic park (dave 'n busters: teaching everyone valuable lessons about their survival skills. i'm talking about the bar and general cliental here, not dinosaurs. IF YOU CATCH MY DRIFT); i watched the N get strapped to a table while wearing a tuxedo and having his junk almost decimated by a laser operated by an evil villain; I went to the grocery store and made dinner.

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

After an icy, swerving and 4-times-as-long commute home last night and before the animal and I both bit it on the same storm grate simultaneously in a manner that would make Robert Gates proud, the Pyggy household was blessed to receive a personal phone call from a certain Senator running for President. Usually, these messages are mass deleted with the other 10 or so we get for the people who used to have our number and seemingly owe millions of dollars to various loan sharks.

But this message stood out because it was clearly recorded yesterday afternoon, with reference to things that we happening right then. It basically sounded like this:

Hello friend. I know the weather is terrible out there in Northern Virginia and car accidents have blocked every ramp and bridge out town. But toady is Election Day and you and I both now that this campaign may be the most important EVAR. Also, I want to be President so bad. I am not all those things that my opponents say that I am. In fact I am for the same things that you are for. Like more money in your pocket and that one dog you like at the dog show. Probably the beagle. And I’m against terrorists. Because, god forbid, if there is ever an attack in DC, today’s weather has pretty much proven that an evacuation of the city is fracking impossible. The radio said some people hadn’t moved on 395 for 4 hours. Four hours! Dirty bomb clouds move pretty fast folks, hope you can hold your breath for four hours. Anyway, if you can, walk on down to your polling site and vote for me.

I may have taken some liberties with the middle of the message. But the beginning bit about the bad weather and the back end about terrorists were almost verbatim.

Is anyone watching the Clemens hearing? Did someone catch Eleanor Holmes Norton’s line of questioning? I only turned it on right before they broke for lunch and just heard her last statement. What led up to her saying to the Rocket, “Mr Clemens, I all I can say is, I'm sure that you’re going to Heaven?”

Update: Oh hai. I guess I'm live blogging this.

Clemons just admitted he didn't know if he was a vegan or knew what one was.

There are few people I love more in the world than the N's former roommates... all of them. He had good taste in past co-inhabitants, for the most part. While we still see a few of them occasionally ("hey guys, did I ever tell you about the time I was living in Canada and started a glam-nu-metal band that created fucking epic songs about Rohypnol? Sit back, I have a story"), some we only see every few years. Like R.

R., a college buddy of both of ours and current Portland resident, is always my absolute favorite. He looks and acts like a 12 year old, and is the most earnest guy I have ever met in my life. He's a human puppy. R. used to have a chinchilla in a glass aquarium in their apartment, and while working the graveyard shift at a classic rock station in college, would occasionally dedicate a 3 AM play of Yes or Steppenwolf to yours truly "kicking it late tonight in the Printmaking room on campus, woooo hoooooo!"

Anyway. R. Love him.

In a max-five-minute phone conversation last night, we discussed the following:

1) Vegan strip clubs.

2) The economy is so bad he's going to lose the lease on his art gallery (?), which he mostly supports by running a tee-shirt embroidery business with a man named Mag/ik (??); and this is problematic because right now the gallery manager Julie is living out of the back storeroom because they can't afford to pay her, and so she can't pay rent anywhere.

3) How the above money troubles has led him to take on extra part-time work, and by "extra part-time work" he means becoming a snowboarding coach at a private school.

4) That's right, snowboarding coach.

5) But even though no one has any money "you guys should totally move here you'd love it so much, there are lots of trails." (R. did not distinguish exactly what kind of trails he was talking about, I'm going to go out on a limb and assume hiking or running or something; which makes no sense because I would not like that at all because running is the Devil's activity. Or maybe he meant skiing, also problematic since neither the N nor I can ski worth a goddamn. Or, maybe he meant trails of cocaine on his glass-topped dining room set. Like I said, still unclear.)

6) The Spruce Goose.

7) By the way, R. reports he is "sporting some wicked rad sideburns these days."

Tuesday, February 12, 2008

Last night, for the first time ever, Brown Dog’s breed was included in the Westminster Dog Show. The previous 125 years of exclusion had less to do with the dog’s rarity and more to do with the breed’s breath smelling like a fish slurry factory. Or that’s at least what I assume, based on our animal and his flower wilting skunk mouth.

He was very proud that his kin are finally getting the respect they certainly don’t deserve. He was a little embarrassed, however, because it’s obvious that our hound is a bit on the runty side, based on the breed winner.

Listen. I’m no prude. For instance, I read the British version of Maxim, if you know what I’m saying. I used to think the folks that sent their swimsuit issues back to Sports Illustrated were uptight CS Lewis reading Huckabites drinking their caffeine-free generic cola at a Friday night Hearts tournaments.

I know times are changing. But now that I have a family, I have to look out for what the dog sees. We don’t take him to R-rated movies. We don’t let him watch Animal Planet after 10pm. And he’s certainly not going to look at this year’s SI.

Uh, it’s only the cover, but you'll probably get HR coming by and asking you to take it off your cubicle wall. They'll also probably make watch that video about not sneaking up behind the secretaries and spraying their hair with those canisters of keyboard-cleaning compressed gas. Turns out nobody likes that.

I may have mentioned that I play pick-up football in the shadows of TC Williams on Sunday mornings. I am a simple man and I look forward to it dearly.

TC is located on King Street in Alexandria and is bookended on either side by two large churches. There is a third one about a block and a half away. Sunday mornings, I have recently learned, are when people go to church and there is often much traffic.

I have also recently mentioned that TC Williams was just rebuilt and large machines are in the process of tearing the old building down. When the demolition is complete, a brand new and environmentally-sound parking installation will be built in its place. I think it’s supposed to have a grass roof or something. In the meantime, however, the school does not have a proper parking lot.

Publicly, I say “Why would you hold a Presidential rally at a location with little to no public parking?”

Privately, I say “Dude, I’m not going to the rally. I was playing football. What do you mean you won’t move these buses until the speech is over? How am I supposed to drive home when roads are blocked?”

I might have stuck my nose inside to see what’s what but I was wearing shorts and felt under-dressed. Also, I was covered in mud. Eventually, one of the Alexandria cops was nice enough to move his car so I could get home. And the only other frustration that day was when I went to the grocery store and all the parking spots there were taken by rally-goers and I had to wait 20 minutes to find a spot.

My understanding is that the rally was a great success. While I waited for the buses to not move, I took several pictures of the folks who did NOT get into the school because it was too crowded. The queue extended about two hundred more yards past what my camera could see.

Surprisingly good song by a band that no one’s heard of and has no album or MySpace page

Crap

Crap

Crap

Crap

Live recording of Hold Steady's Stuck Between Stations at First Avenue, Minneapolis

In fact, that’s pretty much every Paste CD I’ve ever listened to. Until this month.

There was a very upsetting inclusion in this month’s issue.

Say you’re having a conversation about music with your mates and you want to recollect the youthful, more innocent yet brooding days of the late 90’s. There is only one band you need to bring up. Or say someone is arguing that Austin or Athens, GA is the center of college music in America but you think it’s actually Williamsburg, Va. If you bring up this band, the conversation will end and you will be awarded a medal from the Model UN for your debating techniques. Or say some guy is like, “Ian McKaye once tuned my guitar.” And you say, “Oh yeah? I know a guy who used to date the girl who’s now dating the leader singer of this band.” Again, you’re the winner.

This band should have been your answer to all references about washed up, Virginia bands from last decade. This band was Seven Mary Three.

But now this month’s Paste Magazine seems to imply that 7M3 has a new album coming out. And they put a song from that album on their free CD. This is probably good news for the William and Mary music scene. But this is awful news for me. They were my go-to band.

Wednesday, February 06, 2008

K, so I'm old and kind of crusty so maybe this has already been mentioned a thousand billion times in the blogorrhea, but ewww. What is WRONG with the world? Especially today? When did we all get so.... terrible? LNS, ANSWER ME.

Tuesday, February 05, 2008

With so many Super things going on this week I nearly forgot that today was Super Free Boob Day down in N’arleans. Tomorrow, we sell all our stock in companies that make cheap plastic beads because the earning reports tomorrow are going to sink faster than a Tulane co-ed’s self respect tonight.

With Fat Tuesday comes the sad reminder that DC no longer has its own Mardi Gras-styled bar/roofie factory. Still. Sure, there are places where you can see Doug Hill take his shirt off (dear god I hope so) but if you want the real authentic New Orleans feeling, you probably have to drive to Baltimore. Or at least Bowie.

We spoke of Lulu’s passing last year with hushed and reverential voices. I also pretty much exhausted all I had to say about the place. It was a sleaze pit that was always way too humid and it smelled bad. But it served its purpose of keeping jerks and skanks away from the high class bars I was going to like the Brass Monkey or that one in Georgetown where you can’t wear a hat.

Much has changed since last February’s trot down to Lulu’s for the little memorial. First, we found out that there was going to be a Walgreens built on that sullied ground and we rejoiced. Then, one of those neighborhood newspapers said that the deal had fallen through and there was sorrow in all the land. For a while, it looked like crappy old CVS was going to maintain it’s strangle hold on our candy and pills, seeing it’s the only drugstore within 30 blocks that isn’t another CVS. But two month’s ago there was word that someone got their act together and Walgreens was coming back.

(I’ve only been to a Walgreen’s twice. The first was one in Missouri when I was lost and needed a map. The second time was in Wisconsin and I needed a Nerf football and a sweatshirt because I was flying to Hawaii. Both times, Walgreen had what I needed. My only reservation is that they seemed like they are claustrophobic-ly over-crowded with products. But this is a better option than any CVS, where the products are always under-stocked and/or on the floor in piles.)

Indeed, it looks like they are putting the finishing touches on Walgreens and soon CVS will never darken our lives again. If Lulu’s had to go, at least the space will serve a noble anti-CVS cause.

Of course, they also built a Starbucks.

My original plan was to march on down to the former Lulu’s site and present everyone with beads. It turns out, however, that the people at Starbucks aren’t really down with that. Also, I couldn’t find any beads. So I’ve had to rehash last year’s memorial.

I stole one set of giant beads from someone who’s out of town and went to work. I hope someone takes them off the fence and has a good time tonight.

I got nothing else for you. THe N's got the pukes, maybe a by-product of our house stinking like poultry rot, the dog's got a bloated stomach, and I came to work today because someone has to pay bills around these fucking parts. Oh, also, T-15 and S adopted a cat this weekend, she is cute and looks tough and we're all voting for them to keep her name as Griz. And adopt another one and name he/she Dot Com.

we're going to Pr0tland for no apparent reason at the end of the mnth - that's right, February. Send me suggestions, and not the Japanese gardens or whatever because - alright already and also - February. Think warm.